


a moment of your time

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 20something Prompto / 30something Noctis, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Discord, Inspired by Fanart, Love Bites, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent, hickeys all over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 07:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14015199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: The days and nights of work leave Noctis exhausted and torn and listless, but there's a boy waiting in his bed, one who knows how to love him (in all the senses of the word).





	a moment of your time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izumii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izumii/gifts).



> Art inspiration by Izuumii: [click here](https://izuumii.tumblr.com/post/171977620641/you-thoughts-on-30-years-old-noctis-x-20-years) (mostly SFW).

Whir and crash of the rain, the fans of lightning slashing the midnight sky open again and again, and thunder chases his footsteps as he reluctantly hits the brakes: here is the entrance to the private parking garage, and there is his reserved slot, right next to the elevators, and he’ll still have to step out of the car -- and as soon as he does, the wind shrieks at him, gnaws at him with cold needle-sharp teeth, and he feels far older than he should as he gathers up his suit jacket and his smartphone and his tablet, as he stows his car keys in his pockets.

Every step is a tiny, tiny agony, pain lurching up his nerves as he crosses into the elevator -- quiet beep of a security scan, and he passes it, and he slouches into a corner of the tiny steel-sleek cabin in relief. 

Another long day and night over, and it’s well past midnight, and the only saving grace of the whole thing is that he’s got two days off, maybe three, starting right now: doctor’s orders, some of it, because his back has been acting up again, because he’s starting to limp, and he’s hobbled into his meetings before, and it’s still not an experience he enjoys, mostly because he’s not a big fan of pain. 

So he’s got painkillers coming to him in the morning, and stern orders to take it easy: and that normally means that he’ll spend hours and hours tossing and turning in bed, and then answering emails from where he stops on his pillows, and fielding one scolding or another from the others.

Normally.

But as soon as he swipes his key-card and closes the door to his loft behind him, he sees that -- maybe it’s not going to be a normal weekend, after all.

Scuffed-up white sneakers, road dust and dried mud obscuring the bright-red stripes, tossed aside in the entryway. 

He looks around the loft for other signs: and his gaze lands with a thud on the paper bag on the otherwise pristine kitchen counter. Rain-stains on the brown material, but the contents are laid out almost neatly, and he only recognizes the lurid-red labels of instant noodles, which doesn’t make sense because next to those large cups is a container of cut-up fruits, so he thinks he’s getting some mixed messages from the whole collection, and the yogurt cups aren’t helping with that assessment either.

Passing by the rain-soaked view of the city, he touches a button on the wall to pull down all the curtains, and now he doesn’t have to see the storm that leaves him feeling like he’s too small, like he’s pinned in a vise of bad memories.

Up the stairs, and he curses the sharp twinges in his back every step of the way, and -- 

He stops when he gets a good look at the bed.

Most nights the bed is empty and cool, and most nights he comes home to all the sheets smoothed out, to all the pillows fluffed up and impersonal. To a bed that looks like a magazine layout and not, not someplace he can try to rest.

Most nights, but this night is not like those nights: caught in the glow of golden lamplight is the shape of someone tucked into the covers. The shapes of books, of stacks of papers. An obnoxiously green pencil-case spilling out its contents. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had to work with textbooks, or problem sets.

But all of these things fade out of Noctis’s perception, because he’s stepping carefully, he’s trying to reach the shape outlined in the sheets, and the first thing he focuses on is the arm thrown out of the billow of white-pinstriped gray: the hand closed in a loose fist, the fingers stained in blue and black and neon-pink. 

He sits gingerly at the head of the bed, and holds that hand in both of his, and he ghosts a kiss over the smooth palm, the juncture of hand and arm, the freckles like scattershot shadows permanently imprinted into the skin.

A sigh, a rustle: the person on the bed shifts, turns, and the sheets fall away and he can see more, now.

Ruffle of pale-blond hair, styling products defeated, so the longish locks fall freely onto the bed. Long enough to maybe need a trim, maybe in a week or two -- long enough to fall past the neckline of the thin school-uniform shirt, to get caught in the buttonholes in the points of the collar. Eyelashes a shade or two darker, casting long fan-shaped shadows onto elegantly winged cheekbones. Freckles clustered around the nose, around the mouth, undiscovered star-patterns splashed over skin. 

Noctis pulls the sheets away, completely revealing Prompto: this boy, this gangly shape. Shoulders hunched over in their habitual slouch. Pillow tucked into the hollow of his body, so he’s cupped around it, so he’s bowed into it, and that position has pulled the material of his shirt tight over his back, and Noctis can count the bumps and hollows of his spine easily. Glimpse of gray underwear, the seams on the otherwise plain briefs picked out in black. Prompto’s a shape of arms and legs, although Noctis has to laugh because he’s actually still wearing his socks, a lurid orange that clashes with nearly everything else in this loft.

Noctis does remember to muffle his laughter in his hand -- and he picks up all the books and the notes and the pens and sets them aside on the floor, roughly in the same positions that they had been atop the bed, before he strips down to his own bare skin and climbs into bed, and curls himself around Prompto.

Who stirs, and mutters, heedless and thoughtless and the word leaves Noctis sweetly torn, because the word that leaves Prompto’s lips in his sleep is: “Noct.”

“Yeah it’s me,” he says, and he kisses Prompto’s shoulder, noses up towards the curve of his neck.

Yawn, catching, and he laughs and then Prompto is turning around in his arms, bleary-eyed and still smiling, and it’s like this bed’s been made to take the shape of him as he presses himself full-length against Noctis and murmurs, happily. “You’re home.”

“Sent home,” he says, and he kisses Prompto, swift and firm, and nipping at the corner of his mouth.

Those lovely eyes widen in something like alarm. “Back bothering you again?”

He nods, reluctantly. “And my knees. And basically everything else. I’m a fucking wreck, apparently.”

“No you’re not. Not to me.” Prompto’s kiss is like a benediction, and Noctis chases it, shamelessly: he rolls Prompto onto his back without breaking contact, and he tastes mint candies and chocolate on that clever mouth, and the acrid-sugary dregs of some energy drink or another.

Prompto’s already breathing hard when he lets him up for air. 

“You’re sweet,” Noctis mutters, and he lets Prompto trail kisses along the scruff of his beard, lets Prompto pull him down with a gentle hand in his hair. “But -- I hate to be the responsible person here. You finished your shit yet?”

Blink, and it’s as if Prompto’s only now realized that his school things have been moved off the bed, and then -- he laughs, only a little mocking. “Let you in on a secret.”

“I’m almost afraid to know,” Noctis mutters, and can’t stop the grin that touches his mouth.

“That’s next week’s homework I’m doing.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not going to school tomorrow.”

“Okay, no.” He narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Just don’t feel like it. Mostly I had a thought: if you were going to be anywhere near here on a Friday I wasn’t going to be somewhere else. I want to be right here because I know you’ll be here at some point. Even if it’s just for an hour or something like that. I want you here, I want to be with you. So. I’ll take the day off.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Noctis mutters. “And besides. I’m not going anywhere. I said I was sent home, yeah? So I’m here for the weekend.”

“Sweet, then I’m really skipping tomorrow. I’m gonna be right here.”

“Prompto.”

“Noctis,” is the response, nearly as quiet, and far too insolent. “I want to be here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tries again. “You can go to school and come back here and I will be here when you leave, and I will still be here when you get back.”

Pout, that he kisses, and Prompto pulls away from that kiss too soon. “I’ve heard that one before.”

And he really can’t fault that quiet sharp edge of hurt in the words. How many times has he had to run out on Prompto? Some kind of stiff-and-starched dinner. A last-minute invitation to cocktails. Business trips that left him without any kind of weekend whatsoever. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” he murmurs, and he’s not trying to pull Prompto closer: he can see the shut-off tightness in the line of that soft mouth. “Go to school and everything and I’ll come get you, as soon as you’re done, and -- I dunno, what do you do on Friday nights anyway?”

“Guessing everyone else hangs out. I don’t -- have anyone to hang out with.”

He knows that. They’d met on a Friday night, after all, in the wake of another thunderstorm. Meetings for him and a failed series of negotiations that had left him sore and snarling as though he’d been a child again. And Prompto, knuckles bruised in the wake of an altercation with bullies.

“Let me stay here with you, please, Noct. I -- I just want to take a break from everything.”

This time it’s Prompto who initiates the kiss, and Noctis willingly falls right into him, and -- “That bad?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

And maybe Prompto sounds exactly as he’d felt, when he’d been slouching in the elevator, only wishing to get to bed.

“Okay.”

“Cool,” he hears Prompto say, after a moment.

He settles onto the pillows, then, and he curls his arm around Prompto when he tucks himself into his side, and he sifts blond hair through his fingers. 

He feels the draft before he hears it: feels the pain, protesting, scoring down his nerves, and he groans and Prompto’s up and over him in an instant, worry flaring in those eyes. “Noct.”

“It’s the rain,” he says. “Always makes me ache.”

“Do you want a distraction?”

And before he can answer Prompto is sitting up next to him: he hears the rustle of cloth, the give and groan of the bed as Prompto undoes his layers.

He sits up, mindful of his pains, just in time to see Prompto slide his briefs down his legs and off.

Warmth all against him, when Prompto goes to kneel between his legs, when Prompto pulls him close: and Noctis sighs, and goes where he’s put. Here are the planes of Prompto’s chest, the strength of his arms around Noctis’s shivering shoulders, the nonsense humming that vibrates down from Noctis’s forehead where Prompto has pressed his mouth to him. 

Noctis catches him by the hips and holds him close, just breathing him in, just fighting off the cold and the pain, and then it’s an entirely natural thing to whisper his name, and look up, and kiss him. To drink in the encouraging murmur, the soft gasps, as Noctis deepens the kiss: he doesn’t even need to coax Prompto’s mouth open, for he’s so responsive and eager, and Noctis has long since given up on resisting this particular temptation. 

So he licks at the roof of Prompto’s mouth, at the edges of his teeth, and lets Prompto in to explore in his own turn, kiss after languid kiss, the slick wet sounds of them meeting and meeting again.

“You’re really going to stay here?” Noctis asks, trying to catch his breath.

“Please let me stay, I really want to,” is Prompto’s response.

“You okay with,” and he meets Prompto’s eyes, and traces two fingers down the length of his throat.

Shiver, that gives Prompto’s answer away. “Yeah? Please?”

He smiles. “You’re really into this, aren’t you.”

“I like it a lot,” is the response.

So Noctis holds him in place where he is, half-rising over him, and he licks his way down from Prompto’s mouth and down to his throat and he feels the convulsive swallow of Prompto against his lips, and he presses a lingering kiss into the thin tender skin: a kiss that he turns into suction, into the nip of his teeth, the rush of heat to his mouth.

“Fuck -- ”

He feels, too, the growing hardness trapped against his torso, but he’s too busy with Prompto’s throat and the strangled soft cries of him, as he marks him again and again and now he’s kissing down Prompto’s chest, and pulling him closer -- Prompto’s hands scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase, for some kind of anchor, and he doesn’t let up on those dirty bruising kisses, darker than Prompto’s freckles, and far larger.

The rush of Prompto’s yearning cries is almost enough to drive all thoughts of pain away from Noctis’s mind: almost, and he winces and pulls away and feels the throb in his mouth, in his teeth, and sees the imprints he’s left behind in Prompto. “Sorry.”

“Oh, um, you want to lie down?” Prompto asks, after a long moment of trying to catch his breath.

He shakes his head. “Not unless I really have to.” 

Frown, brief but fierce. “Fair enough. Where do you want me?”

He laughs, a little. “You really don’t want me to answer that question.”

Slow sly grin, in response. “I don’t know. I’ve learned a few things, I think I can take it.”

“Oh, I know you can.” 

Even in the shrouded lamplight he can see the flush that darkens even further on Prompto’s cheeks, and that makes him grin and reach out, halfway to reassure, halfway to get him more riled up. “Why don’t you tell me what you want.”

He lets his eyes trail down the length of Prompto’s body as he says it -- and the catch in Prompto’s breath is a satisfying sound to hear. 

And, far too late, Prompto trying to answer: “You know I’m up for whatever.”

“Yes,” Noctis laughs, and he makes his decision, then.

“Stay where you are,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

He reaches for the lube in the drawer of the bedside table. “I want to watch you.”

Grin, lopsided and hungry, and Prompto takes the bottle from him and -- he’s making a show of it, as he pours the slick onto his fingers, as he reaches behind himself.

Noctis narrows his eyes after a moment. “You’re cheating,” he chuckles.

“Oh, fuck, you noticed?” Because Prompto’s already rocking onto two of his own fingers, and the two quickly become three.

“Tell me.”

“I, oh, I was sort of, sort of thinking about you when I got here, I got in the shower and I had to get off, and, and I wanted you in there with me,” and the words are broken and coming apart, such a beautiful contrast to the sounds of Prompto fucking himself on his own hand.

Noctis grins, and reaches for his own cock, painfully hard, and starts stroking himself, slow and controlled. “Maybe I should be asking you that question: how do you want me?”

“You know I want you to fuck me,” Prompto groans. “I just said.”

“Stop,” Noctis says, and he can see how Prompto’s shaking all over, as he pulls his fingers out -- as he runs his other hand over himself, over his erect nipples and his trembling stomach, over the bruises dotting his throat. “Come here.”

“Noct,” he hears Prompto say, soft and sultry and needing.

“I’ve got you, come on.” Prompto on his knees over his lap, and Noctis catches him by his hip, both to steady him and to pull him down: and he lines himself up and Prompto’s always so tight and so hot around him, the sweet startling grip of his body, the shiver and the soft cry of him -- 

Noctis thrusts up, once, twice, and he’s fully sheathed within Prompto now, the two of them shaking together, and he knows how to draw this out, he knows he wants to make this last, make this good. 

“Don’t touch yourself,” he warns, as he starts to fuck Prompto, hard and slow enough that he’s going cross-eyed with the effort, himself. “I want you to come just from my cock, just from me fucking you, can you do that?”

“I, I -- ”

Noctis lets himself fall back onto the bed, flat on his back, and he drinks in the sight of Prompto slowly losing his mind: the building tension in his shoulders. His own nails raking into his thighs, his face twisted with lust, and the soft cries unraveling -- 

Noctis picks up the pace a little, relishes the groan that tears through Prompto -- “Ah, fuck, fuck, Noct, please -- !”

He’s gritting his teeth, now, too, caught up in Prompto, losing control -- 

“Gonna, fuck, Noctis, I -- fuck!” Prompto goes still above him for a long, long moment, and then he’s coming, painting Noctis from throat to waist in his come, and Noctis laughs and thrusts into him, faster and faster until the world falls away, the echoes of the rain and the sparks of his pain, and all he knows is Prompto, gasping and too-sensitive over him and then he, too, is catching that beautiful knife-edge, is throwing himself headlong into orgasm -- 

After, it’s easy to catch his breath, it’s easy to kiss Prompto. Easy to slur out promises. “You wanna fuck me later?”

“Yeah. That a promise, Noct?”

“As long as you’re planning to stay here.”

“Which is what I wanted.”

“Yeah it was.” And he lets Prompto kiss him, boneless and well-used, before he drifts off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
